


Subtlety is Overrated

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Loss of Virginity, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:26:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It boggles Rodney's mind, but in certain ways, John Sheppard is almost—naive. Lacking in experience</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtlety is Overrated

It boggles Rodney's mind, but in certain ways, John Sheppard is almost—naive. Lacking in experience. _Virginal_.

Just thinking about it makes Rodney queasy, but he's taught himself to behold the truth unflinchingly, no matter how blinded by its painful glory he becomes. So he does behold it, turning it this way and that like it's a piece of equipment he can take apart before putting it back together again seamlessly. He thinks about it so hard that he finds himself missing a step as he tromps through the halls, or that he can’t remember the second half of a so-important equation.

One time, he almost _loses his erection_ thinking about it, despite sliding in slow and sweet, enjoying each time John hisses that so-familiar sound, body jerking as it slowly opens up.

It's always slow, too. John Sheppard likes making people work for it—to work for _him_ —and while Rodney's not really into anything resembling a pain-kink, he's got to admit that feeling him tremble tight and uncomfortable right before he relaxes into acceptance—

Well. It's incredibly hot. His dick agrees, too, painfully hard once more.

"Yeah," John says, dirty-low and slurred. His hips roll back, a wanton stretch that Rodney's pretty sure paid courtesans would kill to learn. It undoes him every single time.

"Oh, my god, you're so hot," he babbles, collapsing forward so he can mouth along John's spine, sucking blotchy red marks on each vertebrae. "Jesus, how did you get to be so hot?"

John just laughs, rolling and stretching and pretty much fucking himself against Rodney until Rodney finally lets his brain turn off and fucks _him_ instead.

But afterward, the thought is still there—insidious and a little heartbreaking. Rodney knows he's not actually any kind of prize. Well, okay: lying here sticky and sated and ow, _sore_ while John sighs into sleep beside him, Rodney can admit he's not any kind of prize. But he's pretty sure he’s still had better, and more varied, and ultimately more fulfilling sex, because Rodney is a scientist—why do something without knowing what it feels like? Why have something done to you, without knowing the mechanics behind it? Besides, of all the things guys liked to do, Rodney’s never really thought _that_ is one of the questionable ones.

But apparently it is, because it’s not just that John doesn’t _like_ to fuck. 

It’s that he _doesn’t._

It's not sad, although it's kind of that, too. It's really just heartbreaking, leaving pieces stuck in Rodney's chest like acid reflux that won't go away, because he knows exactly how it's come to pass. _Why_ it's come to pass.

That's easy—the how, the why. But Rodney's genius lays in the fixing of, not just the metaphysical determination of What It's All About.

And he's so going to fix this.

Purely for selfless reasons, of course. Nothing to gain whatsoever.

* * *

He tries subtle, at first. He _can_ be subtle when he puts his mind to it, and convinces John that maybe while he's down there with his mouth stretched wide and pink and oh, god, so pretty around Rodney's cock, maybe he could do other things?

It's not a total failure because John has incredibly amazing hands and, surprisingly, Rodney never knew just _how_ sensitive a perineum could be. As experiments go, it’s a rousing success: oh, wow, is he making John do that again. Soon.

But while ultimately very pleasurable—mutually, of course—it doesn't actually solve the problem.

So he tries again. And again. After a while he starts making noises about rimming, about how good that feels to be spread out and opened and just taken that way, licked like an ice cream cone. John's never done rimming before, never had it either, so the next few weeks are spent learning the best methods to both give and receive.

John manages to give exactly once. It's not good. In fact, it's awkward and uncomfortable as hell, at least until John makes an annoyed sound that _creaks_ , like he's an old man, before flipping Rodney over and sucking him hard so fast Rodney gets lightheaded before _abandoning him_ just long enough that Rodney starts getting pissed—but then John’s sitting down, taking him in, his head tipped back and his ass tucked perfectly in the cradle of Rodney's hips for one glorious second before he rides and rides and rides.

As far as the sex goes, it's pretty spectacular.

 _Really_ spectacular, particularly since rimming John can make him shout into his pillows like he's dying, which is pretty much always a good time had by all.

But it doesn't do anything about the problem.

* * *

Next he tries being less subtle.

He brings up old partners, male and female both, and starts talking about the kinds of things they got up to. That has an incredibly adverse effect because John may seem laid back and amiable, but he's got a streak of jealousy that is a little, well. Scary.

And his response to being slowly led down Rodney's bramble path is to _cut him off._

That defeats multiple purposes in one fell swoop, so Rodney stops talking about Dimitri of the incredibly-thick-dick—a very _nice_ dick—or Mariana, who had a thing for pegging.

"I wasn't comparing you, Jesus, Sheppard when the hell did you grow _tits?"_

John doesn't answer, just goes so dark it's like he's pulling the shadows inside of him, focused and _dangerous_ , staring at Rodney with an expression that's halfway between _I am going to kill you with my brain_ and something else Rodney doesn't understand and really, really doesn't want to.

"Look," Rodney hisses, edging as close as he can while fearing for his life. "I wasn't _comparing_ , I was _suggesting_ —"

"Are you bored, McKay?" John asks, voice a lazy drawl indicating _his_ boredom. And contemplation of knives.

"Am I— _what?"_

His surprised squawk is so loud it scares the crap out of Rodney, but it makes John lose some of the Sith Lord accouterments and instead just look confused. Rodney takes that as the reprieve he knows full well it is and fumbles John's fly open even as he slides to his knees, intent on showing just how bored he _isn't_.

He fumbles a little more than usual and Rodney's pretty sure his palms are clammy to be uncomfortable and, also, _shaking_ because no, that is not what he wants John to think ever, but instead of complaining, John just grabs his hands and holds them steady, body completely still as Rodney uses every trick he’s ever learned to make John come _hard._

* * *

The next step down is literature. Rodney's a big, big fan of words and learning and when hands-on isn't possible, books are a growing boy's best friend. 

Increased contact with Earth means the pamphlets that Dr. Ray seems to hold so dear in her heart could wallpaper the entire control room three or four passes thick. Rodney steals a few of the more pertinent ones, leaving them in carefully plotted locations.

"Hey, McKay?"

"Yes?" His heart is in his throat, or at least, something huge and painful to swallow around is, as John approaches, holding several pamphlets in a riot of colors in one hand. _How Not To Spread Venereal Disease In Another Galaxy_ is at the top, but Rodney can see _Strange Customs And How You Too Can Enjoy Them_ is definitely in there.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" John asks, gesturing. The pamphlets waft gently in the manufactured breeze. _101 Interplanetary Sex Safety Tips_ slides out a little.

This is it, Rodney thinks, nervous and happy and did he mention nervous? John's figured it out, he's going to let Rodney do this, _they're_ going to do this and—

John gives him a constipated look. "Who's wearing the tits _now_ , Rodney? I'm not cheating on you. I don't—I don't do that."

Crap. Well, okay, nice to know since Rodney's played that game and been played _by_ that game enough times that he half expects it. Crap, because not only has John spectacularly missed the point, but he's been forced to admit _feelings_. Implied feelings, maybe, but _feelings_ , as well as memories Rodney isn't supposed to know about at all, but does.

He can't imagine how painful they are—he doesn't have the frame of reference and doubts he ever will. He just... isn't wired the way John is. But finding your wife in bed with one of your closest on-base buddies isn't the kind of thing one thinks of fondly, Rodney's pretty sure. Particularly since that soon-to-be-ex wife had spent _months_ accusing John.

There's no way he can admit to knowing that gracefully, so instead he goes with it and kisses John sweet and slow, grabbing his arms and tonguing his mouth open so they can stand there in the late summer sunset and kiss like yeah, monogamy is pretty cool.

* * *

It's right after this that life and all it's harrowing, bloodstained glory steps back into focus. Rodney and the rest of the team spend the next two weeks dodging hostiles on an alien world. Rodney tries to repair the damaged gate _without_ getting himself killed, while the rest hedge their bets by waiting for the _Deadalus_. It's not as bad as, say, being under siege by the Wraith or even playing hot-potato with the Genii, but it's not exactly a trip to the spa, either.

The natives of that planet were deeply mistrustful people—and Rodney's pretty sure cannibalistic, given the way they kept _eyeing_ him whenever they got close enough for a stand-off—and had serious enough weapons that they slept only when they had to, eating whatever they could forage after their supplies ran out, while battling a forest almost as dangerous as the natives who moved through it with such grace and ease.

Rodney's exhausted by the time he loses the bet, and is beamed up to the _Deadelus_ mid-rant that Caldwell was going to win, dammit.

_"What, exactly, did I win?" Caldwell had asked, eyeing the dirt they were tracking on his nice, clean space ship._

They're all exhausted, but Sheppard is pared back to bone after two weeks of making sure Rodney—the brain—and Ronon—their most powerful brawn—got enough to eat. There wasn't much left after the two of them had what they needed, and while Teyla steadfastly refused to be treated any differently, certain chivalrous and possibly chauvinistic traits were ingrained in the Western male psyche. Sheppard would let himself starve before allowing Teyla the same fate, no matter how darkly she glowered at all of them for surreptitiously agreeing with him. Oh, there was no chance for starvation, not really, but it'd been dicey enough that all of them were a little more gaunt when they finally made it home, and Sheppard most of all.

Rodney leaves Sheppard in the I.V.-capable hands of Carson and trudges back to his quarters. He aches everywhere. Three years in the Pegasus galaxy and every day continues to teach him new and terrifying levels of pain, muscles appearing _just_ so they can complain about how sore they are. He wants a shower so badly he can taste the slightly fluoridated water of Atlantis, the hiss and reassuringly familiar patter of water against his body, against the white enclosure around him. He wants sleep, and he wants—

He doesn't actually know what he wants, as he carefully winces his way through undressing. He's not good at pinpointing emotions on the best of occasions, but it's almost like he's... lonely. Sad, although Rodney McKay is not often _sad_ about anything. There's always some new discovery, some battle with yet another bone-headed administrator to be won.

Normally, that's the only Prozac he needs. Now, though...

He showers, perfunctory motions that get him clean, but offer none of the bliss he'd been banking on. It's only his door chime that makes him put a towel around his hips, wistfully thinking of sleeping naked and wet because anything else is too complicated.

"Yes, yes," he snaps as his door chime sounds again, urgently. "What do you—"

John doesn't seem to remember that Rodney's back is hurting, just shoves him against the wall even as he slides down to his knees, mouth wet and warm and punishingly greedy as he kisses and mouths Rodney’s dick hard enough that he can start to suck, wet, slurping sounds the only thing audible over Rodney's harsh breathing.

It's—nice. Oh, who’s he kidding—it’s _hot_. It's something they've done before, something Rodney normally is eager to partake in because there is _nothing_ hotter than the way John's hair sticks to Rodney’s hands, wet from his own shower, body dressed in shadows that highlight the pink of his mouth, creases around his eyes as he _wants_ so badly that he'll do anything short of hurting Rodney just to get it.

"Stop."

John gives him an affronted look and tries to dive back down. A hand on his head diverts him, nose and chin colliding painfully with Rodney's dick.

"Okay, for the record, _ow_. Ow ow."

"Suck it better," John teases, low and sultry—and gets a forehead-smack for his troubles. "McKay!"

"Shut up and just stop, okay? Stop it. I want—”

John settles back on his knees, looking up at him curiously. "What do you want, Rodney?"

It's gentle, and leading, and _caring_ , three things John normally isn't. Three things Rodney never thinks about enough to want, but hearing it now makes him feel lonelier than ever. "I want—"

He doesn't know how to say it.

Leaning forward, John rubs his hands up and down Rodney's thighs, nuzzling into the soft, curved skin between thigh and torso, scattering kisses and beard-burn both. John is surprisingly tactile when sex is on offer, as open as he's reticent the rest of the time. "Come on, McKay, just say it," he coaxes.

"Fuck me." The words _hurt_ , going off unexpectedly like a gun he didn't mean to fire, the recoil a vibrating shot directly to his belly. He takes a deep breath, aware that John is perfectly still against him. Still is bad, his mind reminds him, babbling and frantic, and it is, but sometimes it isn’t. "I want you to fuck me."

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

Rodney doesn’t object when John uses his body like a climbing tree, just swallows uncomfortably, unable to move or even think as John’s arms go around his neck, the band of his watch cutting lines that will invariably turn red into his shoulders, John’s forehead pressing against Rodney’s.

Rodney doesn’t need to open his eyes to know what expression John’s wearing.

“It’s not, actually,” he says. “We’re having sex. We’re fucking, and please don’t take this as a rejection of anything we’ve done previously, because it really, categorically is _not_ anything even resembling dismay or dislike or unhappiness, or—”

“Rodney.”

“Yes, fine, right. Breathing.” He does, too, taking slow, deep breaths that fill his head with musk and spice—not Aqua Velva, but _something_ —salt so close he can taste it when he licks his lips. “It’s just that I always fuck you.”

John shrugs without breaking the position they’re in, somehow. “You seemed pretty happy about it.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah. I like it.”

There’s thousands of different ways Rodney can take that, from the so-frequent lament of gay men everywhere that there are far more bottoms than tops, to an almost romantic declaration that it’s _Rodney_ John likes. It’s probably just that John likes bottoming, likes Rodney’s dick, and it really isn’t any more complicated than that.

But Rodney doesn’t do simple, not when he can layer answer on top of answer like a Jenga tower.

“Please,” Rodney says, not caring how desperate he sounds even to his own ears. This isn’t about showing John that hey, guys usually like this kind of thing, or assuaging the probably crazy theories Rodney’s come up with, about women who weren’t good enough, no matter how good they actually were, and guys who liked it when a big, handsome guy like Sheppard spread for them.

This is all about Rodney, now, and maybe that makes him the ass everyone calls him, but it’s not _want_. He _wanted_ it before, idle and fleeting and something pleasurable but not exactly necessary.

It’s necessary now: the burn, the pain, the way it’s hot and strange and wrong except in all the ways it’s right, filling and soothing and please, please, he’ll _beg_ , he will.

“Hey,” John croons and oh, kissing, nervous like an eighth grade slow dance where no one’s sure exactly what to do. “You don’t have to beg—it’s not like it’s a _problem,”_ he adds.

Except it is, because John’s barely hard, but he said yes, and Rodney will take that and run. “Have you ever done this before?”

John backs off, stiff and affronted and so patently _virginal_ that Rodney’s already laughing, twisted and watery, when John snaps, “Yes, McKay, of _course_ I’ve fucked people before.”

“Relax, relax,” he giggles, unable to stop himself, earning his slightly rough shove onto the bed. “What, I’m not maligning your masculinity! It’s just a little more complicated for two guys than it is with women.”

That sobers him, sobers John too, who starts looking hunted even as he skins out of his pants and pulls his shirt over his head before climbing over Rodney’s body, warm and solid and god, _heavy_. “You know, sex isn’t supposed to be that complicated.”

“That is bullshit, and you know it. Do you _remember_ your first time?” Because Rodney remembers his. And yes, there’s a chance that John’s first time was as perfect as Rodney’s decidedly wasn’t—but it isn’t likely, and John’s slightly pained expression is all the confirmation Rodney needs. “Thought so. Look, I’ll just talk you through it, okay?”

“I can figure it out,” John mutters, abandoning his perfectly lovely position as Rodney’s newest blanket to dig out the lube and a condom. “It can’t be that different from this end.”

Rodney debates how many points the use of a condom scores John, because it’s been a _long_ time since Rodney’s done this and a condom does a lot of things beyond protecting them against nonexistent STD’s. But like John says, he’s the one normally in this position so he _knows_. “I’d say ‘trust me, it really is’, but as you’re about to find out for yourself, I think I’ll just lie here and be smug. If you hurt me, I will kick you in the balls.”

John throws him a dark look, lube spilling in messy loops over his fingers. “So much for being needy.”

Rodney favors him with a tiny little smile, the one that always pisses John off, because goading John is habitual and comfortable and reassuring, the way his skin feels too big and too small at the same time, wrong on his frame while his heart beating too fast _isn’t_.

John starts muttering under his breath as he shoves Rodney’s legs up into the air and dribbles cold, cold, _icy_ lube under his balls and down his crack. Rodney forgoes mentioning foreplay or, hey, _decency_ , because right then he’s just hoping John doesn’t go for the typical angry reaction of ‘poke, twist, and shove’ which really, really will hurt a lot.

But John doesn’t, slowing down at the last second to gather some of the dripping lube, rubbing it back and forth between Rodney’s cheeks, glancing over the place Rodney suddenly really, really wants him to be. It’s no longer an abstract feeling, sense-memory of something he knows is good but doesn’t really _feel._ Now it’s an ache that has Rodney squirming into John’s finger, pushing back when it stays glancing, taunting, massaging outer muscles when it’s not the damned _outer_ Rodney cares about.

“So, um.”

Oh. It takes a second for Rodney to realize no, John’s _not_ being a tease—although he’s clearly calling up on all kinds of memories of Rodney and probably others being _actual_ teases—but that this is something he knows, something he really can extrapolate from being on the receiving end. It’s also, according to his sheepish expression, where his knowledge ends.

“Just one finger,” Rodney says, and it isn’t funny to be here, legs spread with John kneeling between them. He thought it might be, during a few of his daydreams, but it really, really isn’t. It’s hot, yes, but it’s also a little scary: neither of them are usually reticent about trying new things, doing what needs to be done. That John is here—that they _both_ are—is strange. “Ah—okay, watch the angle.”

“Sorry, sorry.” John corrects and gets about halfway inside before he stops, working it back and forth a little. “Jeez, you’re really tight.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Rodney snaps. It _hurts_ , more than he remembers, but this is one of those situations where John’s experience is a good thing because suddenly he’s _there_ , twisting one hand while the other strokes Rodney’s cock, light and sure, distracting him with kisses along the base until he relaxes, accepts, and oh, okay, that’s not hurting at all. “Because I’ve had so many opportunities to pimp my own ass out.”

“Oh, come on. I heard about McKay the Lothario.” It’s teasing again, familiar banter, as John patiently makes sure his forefinger can move easily before adding another. “You’re telling me that you honestly didn’t—oh.”

“Yes,” Rodney hisses, flushed and hating he gives away absolutely everything at a glance, and twice as much to the bastard who is slowly fingering him loose and open. “Yes, I’m telling you that it’s been a _very long time_ , so remember what I said about kicking you in the balls!”

“I remember, Rodney. I remember.”

Gradually, Rodney’s back stops trying to inch up and hide behind his ears, relaxing against his mattress. The burn is definitely there, overwhelming, swamping his mind so he can’t differentiate between one finger or two, just _John_ , inside him, hot and slow. _So_ slow. Huh.

Experimenting, and trying not to wince because he’s pretty sure that’s going to stop this before it starts, Rodney pushes back against John’s fingers. “You know,” he says conversationally, “as pleased as I am that you’re taking my warning about hurting me seriously, I should also inform you that I am _not_ going to break, and it’s been a while, yes, but I _have_ done this before and—”

John catches his eye, halting him mid-explanatory rant. It’s not just nervousness that’s keeping John careful, although there’s clearly a lot of that, too: once Rodney’s quiet, John goes back to dreamily working his fingers in and out and in and out and oh, oh, a flick that’s just _good_ , John’s face blank as he concentrates, the way he looks when he’s flying the ’jumpers, when he’s perfectly in whatever pilot zone he goes to.

When he’s _happy._

“So, fingering,” Rodney says, faintly. “Good.”

“I’d really like to blow you now,” John says, the _bastard_. He knows it, too, because his eyes glint wickedly as he adds, “Except you’d go off in about thirty seconds, and _you_ want to come from being fucked. Can you?”

“... not when you talk like that.”

“Next time, then,” and Rodney has to hastily grab the base of his own cock, pinching viciously, because _next time_ is honestly more than he’s allowed himself to hope for.

“Three,” he manages, strangled and gasping. “Three, now, god, _now.”_

“Demanding,” John notes, the utter, utter _bastard_ , because he isn’t sliding that third thick, long finger, delicate enough to be a surgeon’s precious hands, inside. He’s just resting it outside, a taunting point of pressure and heat while the two fingers he does have inside Rodney _twist._ “I’m pretty sure I’m not this demanding when you’re doing this to me.”

“That’s because I _don’t_ do this to you, you ass,” Rodney grits out. He can feel sweat prickling along his skin, weighing it down as he arches up and then back. He knows he probably looks greedy, looks desperate and fucking _despairing_ , but if John doesn’t start fucking him soon, he’s going to throw the other man onto his god damned back and ride him.

“Aw, c’mon, Rodney.” Three, finally, _three_ , steady and sure as they work Rodney to that curious state of relaxation that isn’t, an acceptance that’s unashamed of its demands. “It was a week before you fucked me again, after learning I can come from something like this.”

A quick dart and suddenly the fingers are _there_ , rubbing like John’s done this for weeks, for fucking years, and Rodney’s pretty sure the sound he makes is a sob. Doesn’t care.

He’s got his mouth open to yell—to scream, to beg, _please, please, oh god, please, I can’t take it, this is torture, there are_ Geneva Conventions _about this_ —but John is there before sound ever comes out, kissing him wet and sloppy, dirty enough to come with its own hazard warning. Rodney bites his lips, his tongue, rocking with the same wanton arch that John usually employs.

Fortunately, it’s just as effective.

John pulls away with a gasp, eyes wide as he watches the twist of Rodney’s hips, the way his cock bobs and leaves wet, cooling trails over their stomachs. “Rodney—”

Rodney reminds himself that no, nervousness isn’t a turn on, saying, “Get yourself lubed up and no, there is never such thing as too much.”

John rolls his eyes. “Actually, there really is such a thing and—”

“Sheppard! Now is not the time to talk about your slutty exploits, now is the time to _fuck me.”_

And just like that, Rodney can see those long-buried instincts take over, those wants that every man alive _has_ to have—even Rodney can see the necessity of biological imperatives, messy and imprecise as they might be—suddenly forced into overdrive. John fumbles the condom, cursing jaggedly as it takes three tries to actually get it on, then another two before the lube actually goes on his _dick_ and not his thighs.

It’s like being in school all over again, except Rodney isn’t fourteen and as scared as he is excited, and John isn’t Scotty McDowell. Instead of just ramming in, John stops at the last second once again, resting with the head of his cock pushed against Rodney’s body but not yet inside of it.

If he tries to make Rodney ask for it, Rodney’s going to kill him.

But John doesn’t even look at Rodney, just stares at where they’re joined but not, and says, “Hands and knees.” His voice is shaking hard enough to be incoherent, but Rodney knows what he means.

Knows why he means it, too.

No, John’s first time—or third, or fourth, or tenth, doesn’t matter— _wasn’t_ good at all.

Rodney scrambles, not caring that he’s _hiccuping_ with want, twisting so that he’s balanced on his knees, head tipped forward so he can feel his breath against his own forearms and hands. “Come on,” he says, and doesn’t care how needy he sounds. “Come on, John, find the right angle and just slide in.”

A blunt tip, solid and welcome, pushes, nudging inside excruciatingly slowly and this has to be torture for John, but Rodney can’t reassure him. All Rodney can do is stay there, nails digging furrows into his precious mattress because it’s been so long, _too long_ , and it hurts. Red hot like mushroom clouds exploding behind his eyes, bruised, old muscles protesting that have nothing to do with John slowly breaking him open, shattering him into whimpering, disconnected pieces. It hurts, it _hurts_ , fire and flame out of a sermon and it’s just what he wants, just what he’s always wanted.

John’s chest is warm and prickly against his back. “Rodney.”

“N’yet,” he slurs. He knows how to do this, he does: deep breaths, winter-cold in his lungs, arms straining and shaking, eyes squeezed so tight he sees startlingly pale shapes burst in the darkness, as his body relaxes, accepts, shudders into gear and rearranges around this intrusion, this weight.

“Rodney,” John says again, urgent. “Rodney, come _on.”_

“Yeah. Yes. Okay, yes, move. Move, dammit, fuck me.”

And John does. He’s slow at first, creaking grunts the only sign of how much effort it takes to stay so mincingly, respectfully careful. But this really isn’t Rodney’s first time, and after a few moments the wash of pain recedes and oh, oh _there_ , yes, that makes it so much better, again, go, “faster, John, come _on_ , I won’t break, and I know you want to do this, I need you to fucking do this, _fuck me_ already, hard and _hard.”_

“You’re repeating yourself,” John whispers, mouth wet and soft against Rodney’s skin, mouthing his shoulder blades as his body works like the well crafted machine it is. Rodney can see the bunch and release of his muscles, sleek and beautiful, under all that skin, memories superimposed over the nothingness behind his closed eyes.

His own body works less gracefully, jerky as shocks of lingering pain throw off his rhythm, the unfamiliar position increasing the variables. But John is there, hands still wet with lube as they skate down Rodney’s sides, easing him back whenever he falters or moves too much, rubbing his stomach and chest, stroking over the tight muscles in his arms. 

John’s panting out words that Rodney can’t fully hear, but understands anyway because he _knows_ this, knows them. He can’t breathe twisted around like this, John heavy enough to be a stone on his back, his knees rubbing raw on the bed with every thrust of John’s dick, John’s body forcing him to go the way John chooses, the way John wants.

John has him trapped and taken and it’s _perfect_.

A choked off moan is the only warning before Rodney feels that familiar shudder, hears that familiar hiss. There’s no flood of warmth within him—disappointing and expected—as John comes, too soon, not enough, not yet. But John doesn’t leave, just stays there, heavy and solid, still inside of Rodney even as he takes his cock and begins stroking it, hand vise tight, uncomfortable and good. “Yeah,” John says, drunk and slurred like usual, like every other time, oh, _god_ just like every other time, “that’s it,” and Rodney’s mind flat-lines into nothing as he comes hard enough that he swears his heart stops beating.

He returns only when John carefully pulls out, both of them hissing at the feel of it. “That, I could’ve done without,” John says. He’s already up, knotting and disposing of the condom before swaying into the bathroom.

It’s an echo Rodney only hazily recognizes as he’s moved, rolled and repositioned as John wipes away come and lube and sweat from his whole body. There’s a hint of ritualistic habit that should have Rodney snarking and annoyed, but John always keeps one hand free of the cloth, grounding and steady on his shoulder, his hip, the small of his back.

John doesn’t get up again once he’s done, just tosses the cloth in the direction of the bathroom and curls around Rodney so tightly he can’t tell whose air he’s breathing, his or John’s.

“You’ve wanted this for a while, haven’t you.”

Rodney’s eyes flutter shut. There’d been quiet as John worked up to saying what they both knew he was going to say. It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

“Because you thought I was missing out on something.”

The truth of it isn’t so much the words as the delivery. “Of course you would think that,” Rodney sighs. “Because it would never occur to you that maybe _I_ wanted it. That maybe I like it, and missed it.”

John shrugs, somehow free of the tension that’s crawling up Rodney’s throat, bitter and acrid. No, John is loose and relaxed, for all he’s wrapped around Rodney like an old shawl; the incongruous difference between voice and body doesn’t fool Rodney for a second. “Do you?”

“Yes. I do. I did.”

“Huh.”

Is that it? Rodney waits, sure there’s got to be something more—there always is—but the last two weeks are starting to catch up with him and all he wants is to let his eyes slide shut, and maybe scratch at a corner of stubble, right beneath his jaw where it always itches.

“You really thought telling me about a guy with a ten-inch dick was going to help you?” John asks, abrupt. He sounds bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, not an uncommon reaction after good sex.

Rodney loathes him for it. “Given I wasn’t talking about _blowing_ that monster, yes, I thought you might put two and two together. Clearly, I overestimated your intelligence.”

Burrowing closer, John lips an arch of kisses from Rodney’s ear to the corner of his mouth. “And am I as good as a ten-inch dick?”

“Well, it wasn’t the length so much as the _girth_ , which was equally as impressive, and stop fishing for compliments, it’s completely unbecoming. I am exhausted and hurting and I want to _sleep_ , so can you please shut up?”

“Mm hmm.” Minutes slip by and Rodney’s almost completely asleep when John breathes, “You know, you could’ve just _asked.”_

“I _did_ ask,” comes through gritted teeth.

“Oh, yeah. Hey, next time don’t take so long.”


End file.
